


The Agency

by FinalSwanSong



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 14:11:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7511387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinalSwanSong/pseuds/FinalSwanSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Director runs a criminal business and it’s about time that someone took him down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Agency

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small idea that popped into my head. Wrote it down in about ten minutes, refined it in about five.  
> Not so fun fact; I wrote this three weeks ago and was both too lazy and too forgetful to post it (the quality of the writing definitely did not have any effect on my decision).

He shoved open the door with his shoulder, careful to not use his hands. He jogged down the line of toilet stalls in the bathroom and checked each one to make sure that there was no one else in the public bathroom with him. There was no one in any of the open stalls and he turned to give the room a quick once-over. The walls were a light blue, there were no large windows and the walls had graffiti and were covered in all sorts of disgusting filth. There was a tiny window up high out of reach, there was no possible way for someone to look or climb in, or out.

He rushed over to the sink and came face to face with himself in the mirror. His face was slightly paler than normal and he used the mirror to check the door. The door was closed and the slightest movement would tip him off that someone was entering through the door. Not that he expected anyone to, but it never hurt to be prepared… Well, maybe never is a strong word. But fairly often being prepared was not self-harming. The man brought his attention back to reality.

He yanked the zipper down and tore his shirt apart. The buttons flew everywhere but he didn’t pay them any attention. He parted the shirt so he could see the white singlet beneath, soaked red with blood. His blood. He watched as the blood seeped out, spreading out into the singlet, causing a large uneven spot of blood. Warm, wet blood. He lightly pulled the singlet away from his body, careful not to touch the injury to avoid provoking it further.

The fabric stuck to him and he found himself using slightly more force than anticipated when dragging the singlet away. As the singlet left the wound he could feel the blood dripping down his stomach and stain into his pants. He hurriedly yanked off his jacket and shirt in one smooth motion before gingerly plying the singlet from his body and painstakingly inching the cloth off his body. Once it was removed he looked in the mirror.

There was a hole in him. Smaller than he had expected. But he knew that it was just the surface of a much more vicious internal wound. He had felt the thin metal pierce through his skin and protrude through the other side. He had felt the length of cold metal slide in through his stomach and leave gushing warmth in its place. He couldn’t do anything there though, he had had to give a thin veneer of toleration and happiness over his pain. He could only access the injury away from the group, alone. He liked his friends, don’t get him wrong. It’s just that they would likely just freak out and cause a far bigger scene than the one being played out just behind their backs. The inner turmoil had tortured him for so long, the need to just immediately inspect the wound overpowering. But his head and common sense had won out, after a long fought battle. But here he was, alone.

No.

Not alone.

They had followed him. Just as he knew they would. But in here he could outlast them. In here they had no advantage. But that was why they wouldn’t fight him in here. They knew he could win and they didn't like it. But they also knew that there was only one way out of that bathroom. He figured they would just wait for him slightly outside the bathroom and strike when he chose to leave. So the first move was up to him, they had left the initiative out on the table for him to claim. And he was going to claim it. He glanced about, hoping to see something to stem the slow blood flow from his injury. But all he saw was rotting toilet paper and shitty, used towels. Sighing, he balled up the singlet and tied it around his body with the main section of it covering the injury. He brought the shirt back over his head and pulled it down, ignoring the pain in his torso when he did so. He slipped the jacket back onto his arms and pulled thick leather gloves out of his pockets. Shame it wasn't his jacket, otherwise he would have far more interesting, and useful, weapons at his disposal. He pulled them down over his bloodstained hands and glanced at the mirror. His face showed no sign that he was preparing for violent acts, just as he had been taught.

The man prepared to go out the door when he saw something in the corner of his eye. He grinned.

 

Jones was having the worst day. First he was woken up at four in the morning by a call from his boss. Then he had been stuck trailing some guy through a hot and sweaty market place. And now he was just standing guard outside some stupid bathroom door because someone had said so. Jones was a mercenary. He had some combat training and experience and he often was a bodyguard for important figures. It was Tuesday, and Friday would be the day that Jones would retire. He had lived a good life and was fully ready to retire to a nice quiet village with the woman he had been in love with for over twenty years. His comrades would miss him and he them. But one thing he wouldn't miss was how they always said his name wrong. He didn't get it. Jones was a very common name and many people had it. So why did his friends insist it was pronounced Jo-a-nes. But that joke and this sweaty job were just small things in comparison to how great his job had been. And Jones was ready for a nice, quiet, simple life.

The bathroom door slammed open and Jones immediately snapped back to the world. He whirled around to face the door, just in time to catch a fist to the face.

 

The closest man went down like a sack of potatoes and he turned to survey his surroundings. There was another man just a few meters away with another man and a woman just behind them. None of them had weapons in their hands. He did. As the first man came rushing at him he swung the mop around and brought the point into the man's nose. There was a sickening crunch and the nose deformed around the end of the mop handle. He used the upward motion of the mop to lift the handle up before he brought it down into the man's head. The cracking sound was so loud he was sure they could hear it four streets away. The man tumbled over to the side clutching his head and face. The second man came running at him and he swung the mop around. At the last second he reversed his grip and brought the other end into the man's face. The assaulter wasn't expecting this and had anticipated catching the handle and dragging it away from their quarry. The wet mop head slapped into his open eyes and he staggered backwards. The man with the mop threw the mop with enough speed and force that it sailed into the attacker's stomach and caused him to collapse retching. He swiftly retrieved his mop and brought it down on the head of the man emptying out his breakfast. But he had miscalculated. The mop was not designed as a weapon and the makers did not factor heavy impacts into the structural integrity on the handle. He swung with too much force and the weakened handle snapped over the man's head. He tossed aside the useless mop head and brought up his fists for a fight.

The woman didn't seem interested in fighting hand to hand and brought out a knife. She held it in her right hand and the man warily watched both the point of the knife and his opponent's eyes. The knife's point wavered but the eyes did not. He ignored the attempt at a feint and kept his eye trained on hers. She showed surprise that he had seen through her act and she swiftly tossed the knife to her left hand. The man reached into his back pocket and his hand returned with a small metal cylinder. She lunged forward and he could see in her eyes that this was the real deal. He simultaneously sprung away and squeezed the hand with the metal. As the device began to whir to life in his hand he tossed it into the wall on his right. It stuck to the wall and as the woman advanced, she passed the spot where it lay hidden. Her left arm was suddenly yanked to the powerful magnet and the man flinched at the sheer speed at which she hit the wall. Judging from her cry of pain and the right hand that now gripped her left arm, her shoulder was dislocated from the acceleration and her fingers were crunched between brick and knife. Or worse.

The man stepped around her and walked back out onto the streets. He immediately blended in with the crowd and hastily searched for his friends. There was a bang behind him and he knew the magnet had exploded with a bright light as to blind anyone nearby and remove evidence.

He caught up with his friends, they were so obvious to his trained eye and stuck out like a sore thumb. He placed an arm around two of his friends and grinned.

"Enjoying the festival boys?"

His two friends glanced at him before arguing amongst themselves about who was more annoying out of their group of idiots.

The man glanced over at Church, verifying that he was still here. It was likely that the four would be murderers were here for Church and not him. He subtly brought the cobalt jacket tighter around himself. He knew Church was pained with having to go without a jacket but the man knew that stealing the jacket without Church's knowledge was the safest thing to do. And he had been right. He needed Church alive. He needed Church to not know who he was.

He was, after all, hired to kill Church's father.

But the Director was just another man. And agent Double 0 Donut always got his man.

**Author's Note:**

> I have left this open. Despite this being a one-shot I have already planned out the universe and overarching plot, whether or not I actually do it rides on the reception of this piece.


End file.
